


Sunscreen II

by justkisa



Series: Postcards From Abu Dhabi [4]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevan is an idiot who doesn’t put on sunscreen before going out in the sun. Things spiral from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunscreen II

**Author's Note:**

> This one totally got away from me. It was supposed to be a little vignette about sunscreen and it turned into this.

  
[](http://s1203.photobucket.com/user/justkisa/media/loungechairs_zps6b0aef28.jpg.html) [](http://s1203.photobucket.com/user/justkisa/media/sj_ak_pool_zps8095851f.jpg.html)

***

When Alvaro walks by, he drops a bottle of sunscreen on Matija’s chest and snaps something at him in Spanish. Javi, who’s sauntering along behind Alvaro, stops next to Matija, peers down at him over the top of his sunglasses, and says, with a little smirk, “He says, put it on so you will not burn.”

“I al--” Matija starts to say but Javi’s already walking away, yelling something at Alvaro and skipping a little to catch up with him. 

He picks the bottle up off his chest. It’s greasy with sunscreen. He can smell it - coconut layered over something vaguely metallic. He holds it by the top and lets it swing from his fingers. “I already put some on,” he says, “What am I supposed to do with this?” 

Aleks, on his right, says nothing - Matija thinks he might be asleep - but Stevan, on his left, says, “I didn’t. Give it to me.” Matija looks over at him. Stevan’s lying on his stomach, looking at Matija. He has one arm outstretched. “Come on,” he says, wiggling his fingers, “Give it to me, Matija.” 

Matija frowns at him. “You didn’t put any on?” They aren’t even in the shade. They’re right out in the bright, hot sun. “Stevan, you-- Really?” 

Stevan stretches like a cat, pushing up onto his knees and arching his back. He sits back on his heels. He smiles at Matija. He has a way of smiling that makes it seem like he’s laughing at you even when he’s not. “Don’t scold, Matija,” he says, “Give it to me.” 

“Whatever,” Matija says, tossing the bottle at him. He’s kind of hoping to hit Stevan with the bottle but Stevan catches it. “Should just let you burn,” he says. 

“You wouldn’t, Matija,” Stevan says, flipping the bottle open and squeezing some sunscreen into his palm. 

Matija crosses his arms over his chest. “I would.” It comes out more petulantly than he means it to. 

Stevan smiles wider and starts rubbing sunscreen on his arm. “Nah, Matijica,” he says, in a sly, sing-song tone, “you would never. You love me too much to let me burn.” 

Matija rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, “You wish,” and looks out towards the water. The last thing he wants to do right now is watch Stevan put on sunscreen. Stevan - the bastard - laughs.

It’s too warm to keep his arms crossed. He’s sweaty and slick with sunscreen and it makes everything - his chest, his arms -- too hot and too sticky. He uncrosses them and shifts on his lounger. He feels restless and itchy, like he’s just rolled around in the sand. 

“Hey,” Stevan says, “Come do my back, eh, Matija?” 

Matija doesn’t look at him. “Do it yourself.” 

“C’mon,” Stevan says, “Please, Matija,” and his low, wheedling tone is unfair because Matija can never resist it and Stevan knows that. 

“Fine,” says Matija, “But only because I don’t want to listen to you bitch about being sunburned.” He sits up and turns toward Stevan. 

Stevan’s already on his stomach and, when Matija turns toward him, he smiles, brilliant and little smug, the way he likes to when he gets his way. “Thanks, Matija,” he says.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Matija says, standing up, “Whatever.” 

Stevan’s lounger is only a few feet away from his and it takes barely two steps to get to the edge of it. The sunscreen’s on the cushion, next to Stevan’s side. He picks it up and the back of his fingers brush against Stevan’s side. He stands there, holding the sunscreen, until Stevan says, “You’re blocking the sun. Stop looming and sit down.” He’s turned his face into the cushion of the lounger and it comes out a bit muffled. 

“Fine,” Matija says. He’s not entirely sure the loungers were built to hold two people their size so he sits down very carefully on the edge. When it doesn’t collapse, he relaxes a bit. He turns a little, so he and Stevan are pressed hip to hip. “So,” he says, flipping open the sunscreen and squeezing some into his palm, “I’ll just...” and lays his hand flat on Stevan’s shoulder blade. Stevan makes a humming, pleased sort of sound. Matija swallows. “Right,” he says and smoothes his hand down Stevan’s back. 

Stevan’s skin is slightly pink and hot to the touch. The sunscreen is warm from being out in the sun and it’s slippery under his palm. He rubs his hand in a haphazard circle, leaving streaks of sunscreen across Stevan’s back. It doesn’t look like enough to cover Stevan’s back so he grabs the bottle with his other hand and squirts some more onto Stevan’s back. Stevan flinches. “Sorry,” he says, putting down the bottle and sliding his hand through the globs of sunscreen. 

“S’fine,” Stevan says, “Just don’t miss any spots, ‘kay.” 

Matija pinches his side. “Shut up. ‘Course I won’t.” He rubs his hands briskly up and down Stevan’s back. He gets a bit of sunscreen on the waistband of Stevan’s swimsuit. He decides not to mention that to Stevan. When he curls his hands around Stevan’s sides, Stevan makes a low, throaty sound that makes Matija want to dig his fingernails into Stevan’s skin. Instead, he slides his hands up Stevan’s sides and curves them over his shoulders. 

He rubs sunscreen along Stevan’s shoulders and carefully smoothes some along his nape. “Don’t get any in my hair,” Stevan mumbles, which makes Matija want to stick his sunscreen-coated hand in his hair. He doesn’t. Instead he curls his hands around Stevan’s shoulders and rubs the last of the sunscreen into the tops of his shoulders. 

The sunscreen makes Stevan’s skin glisten and shine in the sun. The dark lines of his tattoo seem darker, somehow, shimmering. Matija traces the crossed slashes of red at the top of his shoulder, then carefully slides his fingertip along the curved tips of the wing at the top of Stevan’s arm. He’s wanted to do that since Stevan had showed up with the first dark lines of ink on his skin. He’s wanted to trace and touch, with his fingers, his tongue. Wanted to learn every turn and twist of the new patterns on Stevan’s skin. “ _Hmm,_ , Matija,” Stevan murmurs, soft and pleased.

Matija jerks his hands away. “There,” he says, quick and sharper than he means to, “All done.” 

“You can,” Stevan says, his voice slurring a bit, like he’s falling asleep, “touch it, if you like, Matija, I don’t mind. S’nice. Don’t mind, s’all right.”

“I-- Stevan--” Matija says. He picks up the bottle of sunscreen so he won’t put his hands right back on Stevan. He fumbles with the lid and finally gets it closed. “I, um--” He drops the bottle on the ground next to the lounger. He’ll have remember to give it back to Alvaro. “I-- I just--” He stutters to stop. He waits a moment, hoping Stevan will fill the silence. Stevan’s good at that. But Stevan just makes a sleepy, murmuring sound. 

So Matija gets up and goes back to his own lounger. He can’t get comfortable. He shifts and squirms and finally finds a good position. He closes his eyes, tries to nap. He drifts in and out. He has strange, wavering dreams that are bright with over-saturated color and filled with the sensation of Stevan’s skin under his hands. 

He wakes up to cold water splashing on his face. He opens his eyes. Stevan’s standing over him, shaking his wet hair over Matija’s face. “I hate you,” Matija says, rubbing his hand over his eyes. The water sliding down his face is sharp with the smell of chlorine. Stevan must’ve gone back to the pool. 

Stevan smiles. “No, you don’t.” 

“I do,” Matija says. 

Aleks, who’s standing just behind Stevan’s shoulder, laughs. Matija wishes he was close enough to kick. Stevan holds out his hand. “C’mon,” he says, “We’re going in.” 

Matija ignores Stevan’s hand and pushes himself up. “All right.” He gathers his things. “Hey,” he says, over his shoulder, “Grab Alvaro’s sunscreen, would you?” 

“Sure,” Stevan says. 

The hotel lobby is so cold Matija’s skin prickles as soon as they walk in. The cold feels nice after a moment but, when they first walk in, the sheer shock of it is queasily unpleasant. 

They meet Alvaro and Javi by the elevators. Stevan tosses the sunscreen at Alvaro. “Here,” he says, “Thanks.” 

Alvaro fumbles the bottle and it looks like it’s going to crash into the floor but Javi leans down and catches it. He elbows Alvaro and says something in Spanish that makes Alvaro scowl. He steps away from Javi and says, “You’re welcome.” The words are slow and careful - like everything Alvaro says in English. 

They share the elevator with them and Edin and Aleks. The elevator’s are large but, with all of them in there, it’s a close fit. It smells like sunscreen and sweat and chlorine. Stevan leans into him, presses his shoulder against Matija’s. Even in the cool air of the hotel, his skin is still hot from the sun. 

When they get out of the elevator, Stevan curls his fingers around Matija’s wrist. He leans in and says, “Come with me.” 

Matija pulls his wrist free. “I want to take a shower.” 

Stevan shrugs. “Well, come over after you shower.” 

“Maybe,” Matija says but he knows he will.

Matija stays in the shower until he can’t smell sunscreen anymore, until the heat of the sun feels like a distant memory. 

Stevan’s only a few doors down from him. It takes less than a minute to walk to his door. He hesitates before he knocks. He’s so easy for Stevan and Stevan knows it. It’s always been that way. Sometimes he thinks Stevan’s just as easy for him and, sometimes, he’s not so sure. He knocks on the door. 

Stevan opens the door. He’s not wearing a shirt. His hair is wet. Matija can smell the earthy-pine scent of his shower gel so it must be from the shower not the pool. “Hey,” he says, smiling, “You came.” 

Matija shrugs and steps past him into the room. 

The room is a mess. They’ve barely been here a day and it’s a total mess. Stevan’s rooms are always like that. 

Stevan steps into his back and slides his arms around Matija’s waist. He presses his face to Matija’s neck. His wet hair drips onto Matija’s shirt collar. “Hey,” he says, “I’m glad you came.” He kisses Matija’s neck, behind his ear. Then, as quickly as he’d embraced him, he lets him go. 

He grabs Matija’s wrist, steps in front of him, and tugs. “Come here. Come here.” He looks over his shoulder and smiles - wide and bright - like he has a secret he can’t wait to tell. “Come on,” he says, tugging harder. 

Matija lets him tug him forward. He always wants to follow Stevan. Especially when he’s like this, bright and alive with whatever mischief’s struck his fancy.

Stevan pulls him down onto the bed. They fall together, tangle together, Matija on top, but, before he can press the advantage, before he can grab hold of Stevan, he’s gone, wriggling free. Stevan scrambles up until he’s sitting up, leaning against the headboard. “Come here,” he says, “ _hmm,_ Matija. Come here and sit with me.” 

Matija pushes up and turns to sit next to him. “No. No,” Stevan says, “Come here.” He pats his thighs. “Sit with me.”

He feels awkward, settling himself across Stevan’s thighs, his knees nudging against Stevan’s hips. Stevan smiles, though, like Matija’s brilliant, like he’s so pleased with him. Stevan’s thighs are solid and he’s warm, like he’s absorbed the heat of the sun. Stevan takes his hand and presses it to his bicep so Matija’s hand is covering the span of wings etched into his skin. 

Matija should have known Stevan wouldn’t forget about that. “Do you like it?” Stevan says. His hand is still on top of Matija’s. His palm is warm and a little sweaty. “When I got it, you, ah, you never really said.” 

Matija hadn’t said anything because he hadn’t known what to say. It’d taken him awhile to get used to it, to seeing the dark, elaborate designs, punctuated with splatters of red, where there used to be blank skin, and then, when he stopped blinking whenever he saw it, stopped being surprised it was there, all he could think about was how much he wanted to touch it, to learn it, so that he could know every centimeter of Stevan again. But he didn’t know how to say any of that. He didn’t even know if it was something Stevan wanted to hear. 

Matija flexes his fingers. His fingertips slip along the finely etched details of the wing’s feathers. Stevan doesn’t let go of his hand. “I do,” he says, “I like it.” 

Stevan lets go of his hand. Matija leaves his hand where it is. “Good, that’s--” Stevan says, “That’s good.” He sounds a little relieved. Matija sweeps his thumb along one of the shaded grey curves under the wing. “I, ah,” Stevan says, “I meant it. You can touch it. Or--or-- Whatever you want.” 

Matija presses a fingertip to the shoulder of the angel and traces it down the sweeping curve of her outstretched arm. He doesn’t speak. He’s afraid he’ll say too much or not enough. 

Stevan’s breath hitches. Matija hears the short, huffing sound of him breathing suddenly through his nose. He touches two fingers to the swell of the angel’s hip and follows it down the dripping lines of her robe. Stevan’s holding so still, just letting Matija trace his fingers along the lines that are now a permanent part of his skin. 

He keeps waiting for Stevan to stop him, to tell him enough already. He doesn’t. Not when Matija traces the circle of the clock and presses his fingertips to the _IX_. Not when Matija carefully runs his finger along every line of the light radiating from the top of the lighthouse. He lets Matija turn his arm, lets him put his fingers on every line, every shaded curve. 

When he runs his fingertip just above the crease of Stevan’s elbow, under _loyalty_ , Stevan makes a low, hoarse sound. Matija traces each letter, runs his fingernail along the sweeping curves of the script. Stevan curves his hand around Matija’s hip. Matija pushes his fingers up, over _army_ and _family_. Stevan digs his fingers hard into Matija’s hip. “Matija,” he says, voice gone gravely and low, “ _Matija_.” Matija slides his fingers along the round edge of the moon. 

“Matija,” Stevan says again, his voice rawly desperate in a way Matija’s never heard before, “you--you--” Matija doesn’t know what he’s going to say. Maybe he’s going to ask him to stop. He ducks his head. He presses his mouth to the joint of the angel’s wing and starts to lick along the outline of it. Because, if Stevan’s going to ask him to stop, he doesn’t want to miss the chance to put his mouth there, to lick at Stevan and see if the dark, sweeping lines have changed the taste of his skin. 

He’s just tasted Stevan skin, just pressed his tongue to the line of the wing, when Stevan says his name again, his voice rough and cracking open. He shoves his hand into Matija’s hair. He jerks him up, his fingers so tight in Matija’s hair it hurts, and kisses him. It’s a clattering, desperate thing, the kiss, all teeth and the slick, insistent push of Stevan’s tongue into his mouth. He opens his mouth for Stevan, lets him kiss him like he wants to devour him whole. 

“Matija,” he says, against Matija’s mouth, “I--I--” He licks at Matija’s mouth - too sloppy to be called a kiss. “ _Matija._ ” Then he’s heaving under Matija, moving with a sudden, desperate violence. Matija goes tumbling back. Stevan comes down hard on top of him. 

“Matija,” Stevan says, pressing his face into Matija’s neck, “I-- Just-- I need--” He rolls them onto their sides. He pushes his pants down and tugs at Matija’s pants. “C’mon. C’mon, Matija, _please_. Please.” 

“Okay,” Matija says, “Stevan, okay.” There’s wild intensity in the way Stevan’s looking at him, like Matija’s the only thing he sees, the only thing he wants. Matija thinks he’s always wanted Stevan to look at him exactly like that. He fumbles between them and manages to get his pants down. 

Stevan surges forward. He ruts gracelessly against Matija, and presses his mouth to Matija’s. He kisses along Matija’s jaw, says, “Matija, Matija, _Matija_ ,” against Matija’s skin, making Matija’s name into a staccato, drumbeat of sound. 

Stevan shoves his hand between them, gets both of their cocks in his fist. His hand is hot and he jerks them with quick, rough strokes. Matija pushes up into it, desperate to be even closer to Stevan. He wants to touch him - get his hands on him - any way he can. He clutches at Stevan’s shoulder and holds on as tightly as he can. 

Stevan’s mouth is still pressed to Matija’s jaw. He’s panting, hot puffs of air against Matija’s skin. Matija turns his head and their mouths catch together. Matija slides his tongue along the line of Stevan’s upper lip. Stevan makes a deep, rough sound and bites Matija’s lower lip. Then he’s kissing Matija, pushing against his mouth and licking inside. Matija digs his fingers into Stevan’s shoulder. Stevan’s skin’s going slick with sweat and Matija’s palm slides along his skin. 

Stevan comes and makes a low, shuddering sound that Matija can _feel_ against his mouth. He doesn’t stop moving his hand. He spreads the wet mess of his come along Matija’s cock, uses it to jerk him. He presses his forehead against Matija’s and his mouth comes away from Matija’s with a wet, smacking sound. “Matija,” he says, low and gasping, “ _Matija_ , c’mon. For me, baby, c’mon,” and Matija does because he’s so stupidly easy for Stevan. 

“Yeah, baby,” Stevan says. He rubs his come- sticky hand across Matija’s belly and skates a kiss across Matija’s cheek. He presses another kiss to the side of his mouth. “There we go, you’re so good for me, Matija, so--” He skims his mouth across Matija’s then he presses his mouth more firmly and kisses him, long and slow. 

Matija rubs his hand along Stevan’s back and runs his fingertips along the nape of his neck. Stevan drops his head onto Matija’s shoulder and Matija rolls back. Stevan comes with him, landing in an untidy sprawl across Matija’s chest. Matija curves his hand along Stevan’s shoulder. He strokes his thumb across the angel’s face. “I like it,” he says, in a hurry, before he can think better of it, “because it’s yours. Because it’s you.”

Stevan pushes up. He smiles down at Matija. It’s the open, affectionate smile he saves just for him. “Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” Matija says and Stevan kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> So I spent a lot of time creepily looking at pictures of Stevan’s tattoo and I did my best to get the details mentioned right but there’s only so much you can do with pictures. Also, I’m not sure if the winged lady is supposed to be an angel but she looks enough like one that I just went with it. idk


End file.
